The moors were actually a good place to think if you had a moment to spare. There was still so much work to do, but it felt to Anne like the manic phase was lessening. Yes, there was work, there would always be work, but the used parts of the house were clean and habitable. The soft furnishings still needed to be re-stuffed, which would remove the last of the ill smells, but that had to wait until she had some straw.
Dirt caked around the hem of her skirt as she walked the overgrown path to the main road. Her hands were freezing, even encased in their gloves, and she had to fist them to get the blood going. Egton was apparently where the mail for the manor was sent. And she could send letters herself, and she had one for Harry and one for her aunt, sitting in the beaded reticule hanging off her wrist.
She had a list of provisions and not enough money to buy them, certainly not for the sherry she wished she had. Such simple things were luxuries now. She also didn't know if a cart would come along, or if one would later head back this way. If not, she might just have to spend the night in Egton.
With aching feet, she finally reached the road, and she was in luck—a cart came along within two hours, and she could sit in the back amongst the baskets of what looked like potatoes and other root crops. The cart trundled along at a steady pace, although the farmer showed little interest in speaking.
Egton was a small village sitting in a gentle valley, surrounded by greenery. A village with a scattering of thatched roof cottages and a church. The general store and postal office was in the center, and Anne went straight there. A bell pinged as she walked in, goods stored in piles around the store and along the wooden counter.
She smiled at the proprietor, who seemed a little friendlier than the last she'd met in Goathland. In fact, he was Scottish and older, with a fine, white beard. She bought candles, paraffin, flour, tea, saddle oil, lye, polish, sugar and salt. And matches; she couldn't forget the matches. Lighting fires would be much easier if they had matches.
Paying the man, she inquired if he knew of anyone heading along the western road. The man stroked his beard with his palm while he considered. "Anders might be heading out that way later this afternoon. I can send the boy to enquire."
"That would be much appreciated," she said, relieved that there was, at least, a potential to head home. "Also, is there any mail addressed to Hawke's Manor?"
The man chuckled. "Funny you should mention. There is, and the first one in the time I've been here."
Gladly, Anne took the letter and saw her aunt’s handwriting. The realization that there was no letter from Harry hit home and Anne felt an ache in her chest. Harry had still not forgiven her for the scandal this divorce had caused.
"Did you say Hawke's Manor?" a woman said, stepping closer. Anne hadn't seen her. She was elderly and wore ruffled lace over her white hair. "What business have you with Hawke's Manor?" She didn't say it brusquely, and lay one of her lace-gloved hands on Anne's arm.
"I reside there. I've inherited it."
"You don't say," the woman said. "I am Miss Thornby. You must come have tea with me and my sister. Tell us all about it."
Anne felt a bit stumped how to reply, but the woman seemed kind and Anne was certainly not in a position to turn an invitation down.
"I'll see if Anders is heading out and I'll send the boy around the let you know," the merchant said.
"Come," the elderly woman urged, walking awkwardly down the two steps to the bare earth street. Anne followed, unsure what she was heading toward, but she didn't have long to wait. The sisters' cottage was just down the street—a small, stone cottage with dormant roses along the fence.
"Hilda, I have brought a guest," the woman said as she opened the door. "You will never guess what this lovely girl has just told me."
A slightly younger version of the woman arrived, with neatly tied hair. "Miss Emily Thornby," she presented herself.
"Miss Anne Sands," Anne said, gently touching hands, conscious of how rough her hands were underneath her gloves.
"This young woman says she lives at Hawke's Manor. Come, dear,” Emily said.
A young maid brought tea in a silver service as they sat down in the parlor filled with lace and embroidery. The furniture was dainty, made for a woman's sensibilities. Anne wondered if the sisters had lived here all their lives. They were of gentler birth, obviously unmarried.
"Yes," Anne replied. "I have inherited it." These women’s attitude to her would definitely be diminished when they discovered Anne was a divorcee. She felt torn between telling them or not. They might think even worse of her if they discovered it afterward and she'd tried to hide the fact. But there was no easy way of bringing it up in conversation.
Both of the sisters stared at her and she felt self-conscious.
"No, that can't be. You must leave, dear." Hilda looked at her with clear concern in her eyes.
Anne wondered if they'd already found out about her less than respectable status. The back of her eyes stung with the unfairness of it. She had never done anything to deserve such disregard—except lose her husband, which perhaps she needed to take responsibility for. "I'm afraid I won't be leaving." There was the small matter of her not having anywhere to go.
"That house is evil. It always has been,” Hilda said.
It wasn't the first time she'd heard this superstitious nonsense. "It is only a house. It is actually quite charming, now that we have achieved some semblance of order. I don't mind telling you that it has taken quite a bit of work. My hands have suffered," she said nervously.
The sisters still stared at her. "Back in grandmother's day, there were tales of people fleeing that house. They say it's haunted," Emily stated.
"Well, if that's the case, it's had no one to haunt for quite a while, so it's likely given up. There is nothing untoward in the house," Anne said reassuringly.
"I hope you are right."
Hilda shuddered. "I haven't seen that house in years. I'm surprised it's still standing."
"The construction seems to be quite sturdy," Anne said, taking a sip of her tea.
A knock sounded on the door and Anne heard murmuring when the maid answered. The young girl appeared. "There is a message saying Mr. Anders will be leaving shortly and he has agreed to take you."
"I don't have a horse," she said with an embarrassed smile. "There is a carriage, but it needs attention that is beyond my capabilities."
The sisters looked pityingly at her, and Anne hated it, being pitied, but then perhaps her situation was pitiable, she conceded.
"I am afraid I must depart. It has been so lovely being invited into your home."
"Next time you are in the village, you must come see us."
"Of course," Anne said, glad she had made some acquaintances, although a friendship that was still tentative as she hadn't had a chance to be honest about her situation yet. The friendship might not survive the revelation. "Thank you, again."
It was dark by the time she arrived home. Mr. Anders had been kind and taken her most of the way to the house, although he couldn't take her all the way. She carried the provisions in a wooden box, except the flour which was too heavy to carry. She’d had to leave it under a rock formation that would hopefully keep it dry if inclement weather intruded.
Only the moon lit the manor as she approached in the dark, taking care not to stumble as she was carrying both paraffin and matches in one box. She could go up like a firecracker if she didn't take care.
The door was unlocked and creaked as she pushed it open. The saddle oil would help with the hinges in the house, she thought as she heaved the heavy door shut again. The house was silent and Anne was glad to be home, free of worry she would be stranded out on the moors that night.
The thought of the absent letter from Harry weighed on her again and she sighed. He was just very busy, she told herself, but she knew in her heart that Harry was angry with her, maybe even disgusted. The boy that had been her reason for living for so many years wasn't a boy anymore and he had no need for her. It hurt just thinking it.
Placing the box of provisions on the table in the parlor, she walked toward the kitchen. Finally, there was some noise, but it was disturbing noise. Opening the door slowly, her fears were confirmed with the sight of Alfie lodged between Lisle's thighs, pounding into her as she lay on the kitchen table, her bare knees around his hips.
Anne withdrew, covering her mouth with her hand. She didn't know what to do. Should she barge in there, demand an explanation? What could she do—fire them? She should, but she'd have no one here and no chance of replacing either of them.
Alfie's grunts turned guttural and Anne backed away, escaping upstairs, forgetting to grab a new candle for her room.
This new knowledge turned her stomach. And Lisle had been stupid the first opportunity she'd had. Didn't she understand what she was gambling with? She could be with child after tonight.
Anne curled up on her bed, her fingers still over her lips. This could end in disaster, but then maybe Alfie had good intentions corresponding with these actions. Anne hoped so.